Would You Tell Me, Please, Which Way

I Do Not Know If Alice In Wonderland Was An Original Story-i Was, At Least, No Conscious Imitator In Writing It-but I Do Know That, Since It Came Out, Something Like A Dozen Story-books Have Appeared, On Identically The Same Pattern. The Path I Timidly Explored Believing Myself To Be 'the First That Ever Burst Into That Silent Sea'-is Now A Beaten High-road: All The Way-side Flowers Have Long Ago Been Trampled Into The Dust: And It Would Be Courting Disaster For Me To Attempt That Style Again.

A Tale Begun In Other Days, When Summer Suns Were Glowing - A Simple Chime, That Served To Time The Rhythm Of Your Rowing - Whose Echoes Live In Memory Yet, Though Envious Years Would Say 'forget.

We're All Mad Here.

She Felt A Little Nervous About This; 'for It Might End, You Know,' Said Alice To Herself, 'in My Going Out Altogether, Like A Candle. I Wonder What I Should Be Like Then?' And She Tried To Fancy What The Flame Of A Candle Looks Like After The Candle Is Blown Out, For She Could Not Remember Ever Having Seen Such A Thing.

I Mean, What Is An Un-birthday Present?" A Present Given When It Isn't Your Birthday, Of Course." Alice Considered A Little. "i Like Birthday Presents Best," She Said At Last. You Don't Know What You're Talking About!" Cried Humpty Dumpty. "how Many Days Are There In A Year?" Three Hundred And Sixty-five," Said Alice. And How Many Birthdays Have You?" One.